


"Maybe You Should Stop Pushing Knights Out Of Your Tower"

by orphan_account



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rapunzel Fusion, Alternate Universe - Tangled (2010) Fusion, But not at the beginning, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Izuru Has Emotions, M/M, Magic, Out of Character, he develops them, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The tower Enoshima trapped him is boring. The game of killing knights and spreading despair is boring. Dealing with Enoshima and her sister is boring. Being called a princess is boring. The copious amounts of hair that glows white is boring.Kamukura Izuru is bored. What else is new? At least those lights he sees every year on his birthday seem interesting, if only because Enoshima won't tell him anything about them.There are a lot of things Komaeda Nagito probably shouldn't have done. Skipping out on meeting his companions after they split up during robbing the royalty of magic jewellery is one. Climbing a tower in the middle of fucking nowhere is another. Coercing the teen inside of it outside so he can see floating lights in the kingdom he previously robbed not a week before definitely shouldn't have happened.He blames the hypothermia.





	1. The Knights at Bottom of the Tower.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings and Ratings might change later on and more characters will be introduced. Also, I've only played DR 1 and 2 and never worked with these charcters before though everyone might be OOC and won't include other characters or plots.
> 
> Also, it's exam season, so updates will probably be slow until mid-July/August. There you will have my full attention :)

The brush dragged through another foot of hair as the shouts from outside the tower got more insistent.  
“Please let down your hair. Princess!” Red eyes idly looked out the window, taking in the shining armour of the knight. His voice was quiet and his form small. If Izuru didn’t have perfect vision, he’d have struggled to see the knight cup his hands around his mouth. This procedure happened every other day and another corpse littered the bottom of his tower. He was glad Enoshima removed them every few months, the stench gets awful otherwise.  
Inside was boring. He’d heard that outside would be better. Except the knights who came where just as boring. The knight he did want would never return to the tower again.  
He brushed through more of his hair, twisting the black strands through his fingers.  
He’d been here his entire life. Enoshima had brought him to the tower as a babe. Supposedly to keep him safe and to help inflict despair. She obsessed too much about his hair for him to believe that. Not letting him get the reams of reams of it cut.  
“Princess!”  
And then this whole affair. Orchestrated by her. She told the nearest kingdom about a princess needing saving to inflict despair on those who couldn’t ‘save’ him and died and if anyone did ‘save’ him to find out that he was, in fact, not a princess.  
The whole thing was rather tiresome.

Izuru brushed through the last of his hair and sat on a mound of it, looking out of the window. The knight was still there, lounging against a tree opposite the tower. The sun had begun to set, orange and red streaking across the sky.  
Spotting the so-called princess, he staggered to his feet and crossed the clearing to the base of the tower, weaving around his predecessors.  
“Fair princess, let down your hair. I come from the kingdom of the North, Are-” he rolled his eyes as the spiel started, gracefully standing and leaning down to hoist his hair onto the windowsill. He glanced down at the prattling man before shoving the hair and letting gravity do its job, watching the sunset.  
A few seconds later a shriek was heard followed by a dull thump. Was he crushed by Izuru’s hair? The dull tug at his scalp attested that the knight had survived and was climbing the tower.  
He planted his elbows on the windowsill and rested his chin in his hands, watching the knight’s ascent. His hair rested on the ground, snaking over the icy grass. It must be saturated by blood.

Wincing every now and then as his hair snagged in armour or the spear-like thorns at the base of the tower. He averted his eyes from the thorns. At one point his hair caught in chainmail and the knight had to precariously balance on an out jutting rock and untangle it.  
Half wishing he’d just fall so it’d be over, Izuru was glad he didn’t as the corpse would be stuck in his hair and he’d need Enoshima to untie him. That had happened once before. 

It wasn’t pleasant, but it was boring.

He lent his cheek on one hand and rested his hand out of the window, feeling the wind caress his fingers. It was soft today, but slowly getting stronger. Nights where always windy. Trees toppled and crushed huts in the night. Another peasant casualty. Enoshima said it helped the spread of despair. Izuru didn’t care.  
A sudden blast shook the knight, banging him against the stone. He dropped a few feet down, before clenching on tight. He must be at least 10 metre’s high, and only a third of the way. He suppressed the urge to sigh. This was taking forever. 

Purple streaked through the sky and trees groaned as a gale picked up. The knight had made it nearly most of the way. Red eyes stared, unblinkingly, into blue. This knight was old, crow’s feet crinkled around his eyes and his beard was grey. Sweat beaded through his tunic and slicked his short hair. A hand reached up to him, weathered with work. Izuru grabbed the hand, as Enoshima liked him to do if they got so far up, waiting until the knight was dependant on him.  
“You are truly beautiful and kind, sweet princess,” he gushed, wheezing heavily. The voice was wracked with exhaustion and he was obviously dehydrated. Izuru pulled him up an inch before humming.

He let go.

The knight’s eyes widened and Izuru turned away from the window, determined to boil water to wash his hair again. It must stink of sweat and blood. A scream tore from the knight’s throat and was stolen by the gale. Izuru ravelled his hair into the tower absentmindedly as he filled the copper basin. Another corpse collected at the foot of his tower.

 

Elsewhere a young man stood on a castle roof, taking in the sights of a merry kingdom. It was so hopeful, he thought. Running a hand through his fluffy hair, he winced as it caught on tangles and watched his companions. They worked together to remove the icy tiles from the roof so he could lower himself into the guarded room.  
Souda grabbed pried the last tile off and heaved it to Owari, swearing slightly. She picked it up from him with ease, inspecting it carefully.  
“That’s too fucking heavy to be slate.” Souda gasped, gasping air like a dying man. He smiled to Souda gratefully, tying the rope around his waist. Owari placed the tile down, wrapping a length of rope around her arm and bracing herself.  
He stepped to the edge of the hole, looked down at his prize and the guards facing the only door to the royal jewellery. Nagito stepped into air, freefalling for a second then jerking to a stop as the rope went taut, swinging gently. His luck was on his side for now, as he hadn’t hung himself.  
Tugging on the rope lightly, he signalled for Owari to lower him. And she did. Soon he was crouched on the podium holding the lost prince’s circlet.  
It was simple, by comparison to the other treasures. The current king and queen didn’t care for the elaborate and excessive headdresses of their predecessors. They’d even melted older crowns down to pay for the enhancement of living for their subjects. But, yes. The circlet was silver, mimicking vines with small flowers dotted here and there and leaves that, theoretically, would curl around the edges of his eyes. In the middle was a glass diamond, the size of a quail’s egg. It supposedly had magical properties.  
Many wished to get their hands on it to see what the power is. Nagito was sure it was a hopeful magic. Hope that could overcome despair.  
He held it gently with his fingertips, pressing it into his chest. He straightened his legs, standing on the podium. The rope went slack and, without Owari keeping him steady, Nagito swayed. The rope suddenly went taut and he was being yanked up as the podium fell over with a clatter. A few guards turned at the commotion and one shouted out.  
Souda grabbed him when he was within reach and he shimmied out of the loop binding him. They were skidding precariously over the palace roofs when arrows were loosed at them.  
“We need to get off the roofs!” Shouted Souda, slipping to dodge an arrow with a distressed sound.  
“Meet up at Hopes Peak.” Hopes Peak tavern was a familiar spot for all crooks and was in a perfect location; in the forest that connects all kingdoms.  
They agreed to Owari’s idea and split. Nagito tucked the circlet into a bag and ran to the edge of the palace roof. Without stopping he launched himself into the air.

Just missing a stone bridge that was laden with soldiers, he landed in the lake. He had cracked the thin layer of ice easily.

 

In the other place, Izuru was reading with his hair overflowing out of the tub that he could fit into. A whistle reached his ears, much like the sound a boiled kettle made. He languidly looked up, crimson eyes fixing on an oval mirror that was fixed onto the far wall.  
It showed a blonde woman, with two large bunches. She grinned, waving excitedly.  
“Kamukura! Let down your hair!” Her high voice grated on his nerves and he stayed silent, not wanting to say the obvious. She pouted when he turned back to his book. His eyes scanned the words, but he kept focus on the mirror.  
“Enoshima, his hair is wet.” Ikusaba murmured. He tuned them out completely as Enoshima rounded on her sister.

A clatter caught his attention, not ten minutes later. He closed the book, slotting in a bookmark, and stood up. A grappling hook was caught on his windowsill and he, the flicker of curiosity sated, turned away to attend to his hair. Of course, she’d want to access the magic, but his hair needed to be dry. He didn’t want to deal with her whining. The sooner she left, the sooner he could go back to his book. With a displeased huff, he set about towel drying it from the roots.

He was finishing drying the roots, when Enoshima stepped through his window. She unhooked the device and threw it down, giggling at her sister as she fell. A small drop wouldn’t kill her and Izuru didn’t care either way.  
“Kamukura!” he didn’t look away from his work. “Kamukura, it’s almost your birthday. What do you want?”  
“Nothing.” He didn’t like anything; everything was boring. A sudden weight to his back almost bowled him over.  
“There must be something.” She pouted, rubbing herself against his back and locking her wrists around his neck. There was something that used to intrigue him, when he was younger, that wasn’t mentioned in any book.  
“The lights, I want to see them.” She stilled, locking up.  
“You want to leave?” Her voice, while still fundamentally cheery, had a hard tone.  
“It is boring here.” The lights floated in the air on his birthday, hundreds at a time. While they were most likely to be some sort of lantern for a new year festival, the way Enoshima reacted made it seem like it wasn’t so.  
“I won’t allow it,” she snapped, “You do not leave,” her red talons tightened into the flesh of his cheeks. Then, as if having second thoughts, she sat back and began to smooth down his hair, “It is dangerous outside. I wouldn’t be able to stop you from getting infected be despair. Nor would I be able to stop anyone from hurting you. Also, look at you, you are hardly fit for the outside world.”  
He sat still as she stood, wrapping parts of his hair around her. It took her awhile to get the hair to her liking, and soon she was perched in her usual wing-backed chair. Inky strands wrapped around her neck and folded over her lap like a blanket.  
“If you’d be so kind to sing.” she said in a way that didn’t sound like a suggestion and punctuated with a giggle.  
He didn’t sing, instead blandly intoning the incantation. A bright white spread from the roots of his hair, pulsating steadily in time with his heartbeat. It gave off a slight shine, illuminating his apathetic stare. He didn’t need to watch to see the results.

Her hair would take on a lustre, the backcomb smoothing down. The slight crow’s feet at her eyes was fill out and her flesh would tighten around her muscles. She’d revert to a young adult in her vain use of magic. Izuru didn’t belief one minute the lies she told him, he was fully aware that she wanted to keep him easily accessible and to not cut his hair.  
If his hair was cut, the magic stopped in those strands. A chunk behind his ear was brown and grew so much slower than the rest of his hair. He fingered it idly as Enoshima stood, untangling herself. She then threw the black mass out of the window and gave a cheery wave before beginning her departure. Before she’d taken a few steps in her impromptu abseiling, she looked at him and gleefully called out,  
“Don’t get any ideas of leaving! Remember what happened last time!”

He turned away, eyes closed tight to try stop the tears.

There was a reason he didn’t look at the thorns at the bottom of the tower.


	2. The ice, the fire and the tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Komaeda heavy. Kinda OOC. Not really got the hang of him yet. Not that I'm that good at Izuru either haha

The cold had stolen his breath away. 

Arrows soared into the water around him and clattered against the ice above. A dull pain could be felt from where he had hit the thin ice. It was bound to be thin with a hot spring nearby, keeping the deeper warmer from freezing. Not that it wasn’t still cold. He began to swim, kicking out at an approximate angle.  
If he was correct, he’d hit the banks when he was far from the bridge.

His stolen prize and clothes weighed him down, though, by the lack of arrows hitting the ice above him, it had seemed like the guards were sure he would die.  
Nagito soon was beginning to think the same thing, black splatters appearing in his vision and the near overpowering pressure in his chest. The underside of the ice was intimidating and the depths beneath him dark and oppressive. A large bubble of air escaped his lips, rising quickly. The gratefulness of relieved pressure was quickly swamped by his primal need for air which burned with a furious intensity. He lazily kicked, propelling himself forward, trying to conserve energy. Hypothermia was sure to kick in soon and if he didn’t drown, that was sure to sink him into the gloom. His fingers looked distorted and blue in the eerie light that passed through the ice; numb creeping up from the tips.

Pain cut through his shoulder. Cut through the haze that his mind had fallen into. He was at the bank.

Scrambling at the muddy banks clumsily, he fought for a handhold. The last of his breath bubbled out of him, obscuring his vision. His fingers tingled as he used them. He tasted copper. Hot and sweet. Blood. He was confused. Was he bleeding? Pain registered from his wrist and he brought it to his face. A graze bled from the underside of his wrist. Luckily it wasn’t an arterial wound.  
Bad luck, Nagito thought, that he’d got cut. Good luck, because that mean there was something sharp.  
No longer hunting for a handhold on the bank, he thrust his hand into the silt and grabbed blindly. Victorious, he grabbed the rock and pushed himself up. It slit open his palm and the pain spurred him on. Pain was hope to survive. Hope like the circlet.

Hope against despair.

The ice broke against the rock he held and Nagito’s held broke the surface, gulping air desperately. He flung himself at the ground, clawing at the mud as he heaved himself on to the bank. He was lucky it was a thin layer of ice.  
Not wanting to stop on the shore in view of the kingdom and its guards, he crawled behind the tree line.

He lay, shivering, against a trunk. Blearily looking around, Nagito had to get himself warm. Somehow. Staggering to his feet, he pushed sopping clumps of white hair out of his face and forced himself forward. Trash such as him deserved to die, but not near such an esteemed kingdom. 

 

He sat up slowly, groggy from sleep and frowned. Why was he awake? This felt far too early. What was going on?  
The curtains around the cornered off segment where made of expensive, oriental patterned silk. No light creeped under the bottom of them as they gently swayed with a draft. Sure, it was mid-winter and the sun wouldn’t rise until a lot later in the day. However, his internal clock said it must be early.  
So, what was wrong? He mused this as he slipped out of bed, recoiling sharply at the frost in the air. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders like a cape and padded to the curtains.  
Ready for anything, he peaked out of the gap. Nothing moved in the dark, shadows being cast by the lightly glowing coals. They lay in the fireplace, glowing from the magic keeping them forever lit and cool to touch. They pulsed slow and steady, like the hearts Enoshima has boasted to be able to rip from her enemies’ chests with her bare hands. 

There was nothing there. 

He frowned, crossing to the fireplace. Soon a flame was happily climbing over logs, devouring anything in its path and growing larger.  
That’s when he heard it. The quiet cry of “Princess!”

He crossed the room and leaned far out of the window, hands braced of the windowsill. Hair curtained his view, draping out of the window. He peered down into the dark, drawn to a torch.  
“Princess, I have come to save you from the dragon!” An impeccable eyebrow raised, disdainfully. That was a new rumour. His voice sounded high pitched. While, yes, dragons do exist, there was no dragon here. He was an idiot and young and Izuru wouldn’t waste his time with him. With that, the seventeen-year-old leaned back in.

Only to stop with the arrival of another torch emerging from the forest.  
“It seems the wind hadn’t been too treacherous last night,” he whispered to himself, plopping himself down to watch, “That is a shame.”  
The torched bobbed as they met. A new voice called out imperiously,  
“I am here to rescue the princess from a witch.”  
“I was here first!” the other protested hotly, “Anyway, it’s a dragon that has imprisoned her.”  
Izuru rolled his eyes and left the window as the argument drifted in. Both of them where stupid and predictable. Boring.  
Breakfast sounded a better idea.

 

Luckily, the wind that ravaged the land nightly was merciful. He had stopped shivering, frozen to the bone. A flicker of thought entered his mind – ‘better to be shivering’ – only to be chased out by the single-minded desire for warmth. He tripped and stumbled over fallen trunks and frozen animals as he travelled forward. It had been hours since he’d exited the water and his clothes had dried from sopping to uncomfortably damp. The trees had begun to thin.

Nagito was nearing the end of the forest. 

Hyper aware, he continued onwards with his arms out, feeling the way. The slashes on his palm from the rock had been reopened over and over again against tree bark and bristles. Warm blood trickled down his arm and dried blood flaked off. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to get the stains out. Trash like him deserved not to have nice things – something would’ve happened sooner or later anyway. It was so dark, so quiet. If not for the pain he’d believe himself to be dead. Maybe he was dead. 

The pitch black was disrupted by an orange glow between the bare branches and the sound of hooves, muted by the frosty ground.  
“Not dead then.” He whispered, a stark sound against the once again silence. He continued on, following the fire. One person wouldn’t be hard to jump.

The trees drastically thinned, trickling into nothingness. Shouting could be heard from the large clearing. Something about a dragon. The horsebound man swore harshly, quickening his beast to meet the boy. He then proclaimed something about a witch and arguments occurred. 

Orange lightened the air soon and Nagito began to pay full attention. He’d have to be careful now. A petulant part of him whispered about fire at the edge of his mind, the two torches still glowing happily. The man tugged something out of a pouch hanging at his waist. He peered, leaning forward and identified it as moss. Then his eyes widened in realization; the man’s fire was contained in a ceramic cone and produced smoke, much like a smudge fire. He was carrying the wire with him, dimming it by putting wet moss over the embers to keep it alive, yet only a smoulder. The man stooped to wet the moss in the dewy ground to do just that. Sure, it was primitive, but it worked so much better than the boy’s branch. He must have been from one of the kingdoms to the east. Where that practise was brought from even further east. 

Coveting the device, he kept one eye on it when it was lent against the tower. The other he kept on the boy, who grudgingly passed his bow to the man. He attached a length of rope to just in front of the fletching. Then he notched it an aimed. Nagito thought, for a second, that it was too high. Put then it stuck on the roof. He was strong, to fire an arrow approximately 20-30 metres mostly up. The man gave a mocking bow and gestured for the boy to go first, reaching for his waist again. Naïve and susceptible, he turned his back on the man and grabbed hold of the rope, stepping carefully around the thorns. Then was stabbed in the back.

Literally.

The boy coughed, surprised. Blood sprayed on the stone and he glanced back, betrayed. The man yanked his blade out and pushed the other aside, leaving him to die on the ground. He convulsed once, twice and stopped. Blood and spit dripped from his parted lips in globs, pooling on the ground. The man then began to shuck off his heavy armour, leaving him in chainmail. Then he grabbed the rope, braced his legs against the wall and walked up the wall. He made it look easy. Almost casually he strode up, taking advantage of the lack of wind in the morning.

In record time, with the sun just completely risen and melting the frost, he was perched on the windowsill. Nagito peered up, having stepped out of the trees to sun himself. He watched him as he stepped out of view. And then he watched as he was toppled backwards out of the window. Another head leaned out watching as the knight screamed and scrabbled at the stone. Half way down his fingers left blood trails down the white stone. His fingers must’ve had their skin scraped off. 

While his ascent was quick, his descent was quicker. The next thing Nagito heard was a squelchy thud and blood splattered against the ground. He’d died on impact, bones twisted and shards peeked out of the red slits. He held no sympathy. The rope coiled loosely over him, one end severed, like a dead snake.

His head snapped up and, peering into the sky, he observed the head. There they were, watching each other warily. Silently. Waiting for the other to make a move. The dark head almost looked like hope to Nagito, watching the world from the heavens like a god. This must be the princess the knights spoke of. He cocked his head slowly, considering. Was it even a princess? Didn’t look like one. The, decidedly, not-princess tossed their head in what looked like an imperious manner to him. Then they made a quick gesture with their arms behind their head and his attention was snatched by black. What could only be hair was tossed down, travelling faster than the knight had. Then it stopped, a waterfall of ink in front of his face. They wanted trash like him to touch their hair. For it was their hair, attached to their head. Thick and shiny. He wondered if it felt as soft as it looked, brushing against the grass. It yanked up slightly before dropping back to its original place, swaying with the disturbance. It seemed his host was impatient. Scooping up the dead man’s fire cone, he secured it in his bag; end sticking out of the flap. Stroking the circlet with the tips of his fingers before withdrawing his hands. Then he reached out, looped a chunk of hair around his arm and palm just in case he was pushed off the tower and began to ascend like all before him. 

And yes, the hair did feel sublime under his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the reaction I got last chapter. I love everyone who kudoed, commented and,especially, bookmarked. This chapter is a little shorter, but I wanted to upload today and my end of years are getting closer.  
> (Soon I will be free for another year)


	3. Hope and Despair

“Your name?” the man, as Nagito could see he was a man now he stood next to the window with his back pressed to the painted wall, demanded.

“Komaeda Nagito.” He replied cheerily, giving a smile and staring into his red eyes. The man continued to stare at him, eyes roving over him quickly. Nagito cocked his head, he was analyzing him. Two could play at that game. 

 

He scanned the man. He was young, probably the same age as himself, and obviously hadn’t left the tower at all by his bare, clean feet. The toes had wide gaps that the further   
southerners had from not wearing shoes or boots. His clothes were also probably handmade, judging by the boxes of fabric stacked against the wall. He wasn’t wide eyed and innocent, the person keeping him here was bad.

“Why would a thief climb this tower?” The abrupt question startled him out of his thoughts, but he made a show of pretending otherwise.

“Maybe I thought something was up here?” He said it like a question, lilting his voice up at the end of the sentence.

“No.”

“Oh?” What did he know? 

 

He stepped up to him, caging him against the stone. He was shorted than Nagito, but intimidating – staring down at him despite his stature. There was a hairsbreadth between their noses but neither of the touched. He could see himself in the other’s pupils. They stood, transfixed. One slender, abnormally pale hand raised to touch a lock of white hair, but stopped just before.

“You’re hiding,” he breathed out, barely whispering. He could feel the hot air against his face, “You’ve already stolen what you wanted.”   
The other backed away, quicker than a viper’s strike, holding his satchel by the sliced strap. 

“Hey!” He shouted, clumsily grabbing for the bag. The other dodged below his hand and slid the torch out. He turned it over in his hands, moving the moss curiously before his facial expression changed minutely, lips pouting slightly and nose scrunching. He tossed it aside towards the fireplace, ceramic cracking on the flagstone floor. Nagito watched it wistfully.

All his hard work. Gone.

The boy (the other male was on the cusp of manhood like himself, yet still young), fished his hand into the bag and Nagito’s eyes snapped to the action. 

 

Out came the circlet. The diamond gently glowed a warm yellow. The stranger inspected it, before throwing it back to Nagito. He caught it with the tips of his fingers and the diamond stopped glowing.

“A crown.” Nagito was star stuck, numbly looking from the circlet to the boy and back. 

“You’re – “ 

“That glows.” He didn’t seem impressed, turning away and walking towards the fireplace.

“The ultimate hope.” He swung around, overbalancing slightly but managing to not topple. His voice took on a snappish quality.

“What did you say? Ultimate hope?” It wasn’t really a question. He obviously didn’t need the validation, but Nagito couldn’t resist. Hope was such a wonderful thing, he thought pressing the circlet to his chest, like a child would do to a beloved stuffed bear after waking from a nightmare.

“The Ultimate Hope that will destroy despair.” He trailed off with slight giggles. A sinister sound in the silence.   
He appraised Nagito carefully.

“Despair,” Nagito bobbed his head. The boy stilled before uttering a name. His eyes widened, even those kept from the world knew of Enoshima.

“The root of despair.” Red eyes bore into him, seemingly for an endless amount of time. He seemed to be considering.

 

The stranger, Komaeda, shrunk against the wall under his stare. Izuru contemplated what to do. Destroying Enoshima felt like justice. He could leave the tower and see the lanterns. He wouldn’t have to come back. Maybe he’d be less bored.   
“I’m bored,” Komaeda nodded, stepping away from the wall, smiling. “You will take me to see the lanterns on the new year.” He nodded again.

“What’s your name?”

“Kamukura Izuru.” 

 

Komaeda gazed upon him, eyes widening with something akin to awe and desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promised that this would be out before August, and it is.   
> Also, it's hella short and I'm so sorry, but I've had mocks and end of years and Hamilton. Mainly Hamilton. I'm so fucking sorry.   
> Hopefully I'm out of my writers block now, haha


End file.
